


yesterday was hard on all of us

by thelostcolony



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bromance, Can Be Interpreted As Gay, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, It Was An Internal Love Your Honor, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Panic Attacks, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29481876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostcolony/pseuds/thelostcolony
Summary: Alfred wakes up.At first, there’s nothing special about waking up. It’s not as if he hasn’t woken up every day for the past fifty years of his life. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but then, does anyone, really? Perhaps he can remember some nights where he began to drift, when his chin slipped from his palm and he felt himself lose his grip on a quill, but for the most part it’s not something particularly special, waking up.Except this time, it is.Or: the time travel fix-it au that no one wanted, but everyone needs.
Relationships: Aelswith (The Last Kingdom)/Alfred the Great, Alfred the Great & Uhtred of Bebbanburg
Comments: 38
Kudos: 26





	1. part one: from cradle to grave

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone so i had this idea about a time-travel fix it where alfred wakes up in his old body and i couldn't resist! i hope you enjoy this lil ~chapter~

He wakes up.

At first, there’s nothing special about waking up. It’s not as if he hasn’t woken up every day for the past fifty years of his life. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but then, does anyone, really? Perhaps he can remember some nights where he began to drift, when his chin slipped from his palm and he felt himself lose his grip on a quill, but for the most part it’s not something particularly special, waking up.

Except this time, it is.

The pain—normally pressing and instant, too loud to ignore even as he surfaced from sleep—is absent. Concentrating, he seeks that deep, wrenching pain, the familiar ache in his gut, coiling and coy, which has become a constant companion in these past years (months, days, moments.)

He searches, and searches. It’s not there.

Next to him, Aelswith stirs. He doesn’t open his eyes—he doesn’t know if he has the energy to, and his wife, good and devoted and loving Aelswith, deserves a moment’s peace in the morning before she is consumed with the grief of his ailment. He knows, of course, that these are some of his last days. Breathing has become a chore.

In fact… in fact—

“Apologies, my lord,” says someone who is decidedly _not_ Aelswith, and Alfred opens his eyes and streaks upright. 

A girl stares back at him, eyes wide. “...I did not mean to wake you,” she finishes lamely.

Alfred stares.

“I could… fetch my lord your breakfast?”

Alfred _stares_.

“I will see myself out,” the girl says, and climbs from bed, from beneath his and Aelswith’s covers, and slips on her robes, plain—those of a servant girl, coarse material, not as Aelswith would wear in spite of her piety—and with her hair in knotted curls, she goes.

Alfred… Alfred stares.

His heart bangs against his ribs. He… he has a wife. He has a wife, a beloved wife, his beloved Aelswith. Where is she? Why was there a servant girl naked in his bed? He hardly has the energy to breathe, to move, what would this have— 

His thoughts grind to a stop.

He takes a breath. Not deep—not deep. He has learned that lesson the hard way, over and over again. He waits for the insipid rattle in his chest, the weakness of his illness; he waits for the pain, the flash of a knife right below his ribs.

Then he risks another breath. And another.

He presses a hand to his chest—looks down. There are far less wrinkles, on his hands and chest and stomach, and his skin is unmarked, unscarred. He is pale, but only from lack of sun, not—not— 

“My Lord? My Lord it is I, Father Beocca.”

Beocca.

Beocca?

“In—a moment,” Alfred calls to him through the door, and his voice is strong, and the air comes easily, and he reaches for the covers and swings himself from bed, placing bare feet against the marble and waiting for vertigo that doesn’t come. He stands, half expecting to faint, and remains steady. “One moment, Father Beocca, if you would.”

“Of course, Lord.”

He’s not dressed. He’s not decent. Any denial he may have grasped at, at the idea of what the servant girl may have been doing in his bed, is gone. What must Aelswith think? Does Aelswith know? If she does not, she will soon. Alfred will have to find out what is going on, what has— 

“Your brother the king has called council, Lord. I don’t mean to rush you—”

“My _brother?”_

A pause. “Yes, Lord, King Aethelred? He’s called council. Pardon the question, Lord, but how much ale have you had?” A pause. “Lord?”

“Ah—please, a moment, Father Beocca, a moment’s peace, I am—I am gathering myself.”

“Of course, Lord.”

The air is short now, not in the way he remembers but insidious all the same. It sucks away at his insides, rumbles his guts in an unfamiliar but all too understood way, and for a moment Alfred thinks he might faint, thinks that may be for the better if it would rouse him from this—this vision, this nightmare, this hallucination—

He sucks in a breath and black dots blot at the edges of his vision, and he sways a little, and takes a step forward to steady himself before he falls, and his legs, _his legs_ carry his weight and he does not stumble, he does not stumble _what is happening-_

“Beocca,” he calls, voice wobbly. “Beocca, I think I’m—I won’t be able to attend the council, I am feeling—I am feeling ill.”

“Ill, Lord?” Beocca says, and his voice drips with concern. Far be it from Alfred to admit his weakness, particularly when he feels unwell, but desperate times call for desperate measures and he must figure out what’s going on before he can properly prepare for—anything, everything. “Lord, should I send for the physician?”

The physician, yes—no. No, absolutely not. If he claims he remembers nothing, nothing of how this came to be, claims he is feeling well and awful all at once, he will be confined to a monastery, to a sickbed, a _deathbed_ , and he cannot have that, he cannot show further weakness than he already has.

“No,” Alfred says, and he sounds firmer. “No, that won’t be necessary. I will… present myself to the king once I am more collected.”

“...Very well,” Beocca says reluctantly, voice still very close through the door. “But if you should feel worse—”

“I will send for someone myself, I assure you.”

“Very well. I will leave you then, Lord.”  
  
Alfred waits, ears straining to hear Father Beocca’s footsteps as they fade, the library doors opening and closing, and then he slumps back to the bed and sits down on the edge and puts his face in his hands.

Abruptly, he’s stricken by the fact that he’s naked still, and with haste he pulls on his discarded pair of trousers and the robes draped over the back of the study chair, and he bundles himself in it best he can. Then he gets back into bed, slides under the covers, curls up on his side, and tries to breathe, to calm himself.

Pray. He should pray. He should—yes, that would settle him. But he’d told Beocca he felt ill, and he could hardly patter his way to the chapel in the palace without coming across someone, and either way, how would he explain his ability to attend to prayer and not to council?

And speaking of council—what did Beocca mean, _King Aethelred?_ Alfred’s brother has been dead for nearly twenty years. 

And Aelswith.

His stomach clenches, and he curls up tighter, hand automatically going to his gut despite the pain being higher, nearer to his heart. Aelswith, his cherished wife, who has stood by him through every stumble and every misstep—how could he have thrown her aside so easily? So thoughtlessly? The last time he’d done that had been at the very beginning of their marriage, before he became ki—

His heart stops.

 _King_ Aethelred. The servant girl. What was her name? 

And him. His body. His illness. The strength in his limbs, his ability to breathe. His smooth, unmarked chest.

He has to pray. He has to pray.

He swings from bed again and kneels beside it, knees slamming down into marble. It hurts much less than he’s expecting, and that makes his heart skip again—but then he makes the sign of the cross and presses his palms together and says his routine prayers, the prayers he’s been saying for forty years in their order, and he prays harder than ever he has before, even harder than when little Edward had been ill.

God doesn’t answer, but Alfred begins to feel better for it, feels his heart begin to slow and his breathing begin to calm. God’s peace descends upon him.

What will he say to Aelswith? 

Moreover, what has the last—or what he remembers to be the last—twenty years been? Surely it wasn’t just a dream, or a vision. Visions… do they feel this way? Do they feel that real? He lived, he knows he lived. He watched his children grow. He watched people age. Things that he could never imagine happening came to pass, and through it all he prayed, and there was not a sign that it was truly a vision. 

Maybe… maybe he can ask someone, someone who has had Godly visions. But there was no message from God in these years; Alfred has relied on his faith, and God has punished and rewarded him for it in turns. But there was no angel, no being that came to him and told him to _be not afraid._

He will learn nothing kneeling here, praying, but the tranquility has allowed him to think, to collect himself as he told Beocca he would. 

He’s just saying his closing prayers when the door opens, and he turns to see that it reveals—

“Aelswith,” he breathes.

She looks… like herself. Just as holy, just as pure, as he remembers her being. Less harried, younger—there are less crinkles around her eyes, and she has none of the weight that she retained after giving birth to Edward. Her eyes are sparkling, young. Timid, but strong.

Aelswith. His Aelswith.

“Aelswith,” he whispers, and then rises and crosses the room and captures her in his arms, and hugs her tightly.

“My Lord,” she says, but she wraps her arms around him. She’s unsure, she’s so unsure, she does not remember, does not remember him or the time they’ve spent together, the trials and years they have shared—

  
He buries his face in her hair, smelling sweet soap and whatever perfume she has decided to wear today, something floral he cannot define, and tears burn at the back of his eyes. Of all the prayers he could say, of all the faith in his heart, Aelswith still possesses him. Of all the things that are strange now, of all the things he does not understand, she still fits perfectly into his arms, just as she always has.

“Lord?” She questions, face gently turned to his, cheek to cheek.

“I am sorry,” he says, and feels his voice quake. “I am sorry, I am sorry I have been unfaithful, I will never, never do so again. I will always be faithful. There can be but one wife for Alfred, and that is Aelswith. One love for me, and it is you.”

Aelswith pulls away from him, eyes huge. Her lips are parted. He wants to kiss them.

“Alfred,” she says, baffled, and in it he can hear the hurt, the fear, the insecurity that he has caused to snake into her heart by his infidelity, whenever he has done it—however it has come. “Alfred…”

He presses his forehead to hers, and breathes her scent, and feels at home for the first time.

“Something has come upon me,” he says, low. “Something has… I have seen something, something God sent. I don’t… I do not know its meaning. But I do know that I will be at your side, and you at mine, until I do die.”

“Amen,” Aelswith whispers.

“Amen,” he agrees, and then holds her close, and tries to reckon all of the things that don’t make sense in this world with how good it feels to hold his wife.

  
  
  


After he re-collects himself, after he satiates Aelswith’s questions with half answers of how he wishes to try and make sense of the vision before actually expressing its contents, he makes his way to the meeting room.

His brother is still there, seated before the fire pit, deep in thought.

For the first time, Alfred truly feels the weight of the situation hit him. There his brother sits, whole and hale, healthy and alive and breathing. He has seen Aethelred’s death in his dreams for many years—has been haunted by the thought that he had stolen the crown, that he could never live up to what his brother would have accomplished in his time.

And here his brother sits, alive, pensive, as if no time has passed. As if his death has not plagued Alfred for twenty years.

“Brother,” he chokes.

Aethelred looks up, and then stands up. “Alfred,” he says, and crosses the room. “Alfred, how are you? Father Beocca mentioned to me that you were not well.”

Alfred swallows. There’s a lump in his throat like nothing he has ever experienced. The burn in his eyes has returned. “I am… I am well, I am—you, you are looking—” alive, alive, alive, alive— “well, you are looking well in turn.”

Aethelred stares at him. “Alfred, are you sure that you don’t need a physician? Father Beocca… he spoke of you acting queerly, though I did not quite believe him.”

“No, no I am well, I assure you. I am simply a little out of sorts, today.”

Aethelred looks at him with an expression Alfred has long hated, and then long ached for. “I know you, Alfred. Speak your mind.”

Alfred opens his mouth… and closes it. “I apologize for missing the council meeting today. I am sure it was of importance.”

Aethelred sighs like he knows Alfred is diverting (he has always, since they were children, been able to read Alfred like no one else.) “East Anglia has fallen to the Danes,” he says, and Alfred’s stomach drops. “To the Dane called Ubba. Edmund has been reported dead, though I don’t know how true that is. Their numbers are great, and they will be upon us before we can truly prepare.”

Alfred blinks.

“The council was to decide whether or not to send East Anglia aid in the form of Wessex men,” Aethelred continues. “We ultimately decided against it. If it is true and King Edmund is dead, then we will merely be sending men to the slaughter. We need them now to defend our borders, every fighting man. They will be upon us, Alfred, like snakes to mice. We are the last kingdom of England.”

Alfred blinks again.

“Alfred? Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” Alfred says, absently. “Yes, I… I hear you. I hear you.”

Ubba. The Danes in East Anglia. 

“Oh, and Father Beocca mentioned something today,” Aethelred says. “Some rumor about a Saxon slave overthrowing his Danish master. An Uhtred of Bebbanburg, if I’m not mistaken. A God-fearing child, Beocca said, who was acting in England’s interest when he killed this master of his.”

A Saxon slave. Uhtred.

  
“Uhtred?”

“Yes, Uhtred. Of Bebbanburg. Does the name mean anything to you?”

Imputence. Disobedience. Loyalty as Alfred has never seen. A thirst to learn, to prove himself, to be trusted, to be respected. The flash of a smile; the croak of a laugh. To be a warrior. To fight for his beliefs. A pagan, a heathen. A sharp, disapproving tongue, a mouth always hasty to scowl. A hard worker. A disrespectful cur. A good friend. One who thinks with his heart rather than his head. A confidante.

The man whom Alfred despised, and yet whom Alfred loved more than any other.

“No,” Alfred says faintly. “Nothing.”

“Hm. Well, Beocca seemed to believe he was of some importance. He spoke of the possibility that he may be making his way to Wessex, and asked that we welcome him. Your thoughts?”

“Welcome him,” Alfred agrees, distant. “Yes, welcome him—excuse me, if you would. I believe I would… benefit from prayers, or… perhaps a lie down.”

Aethelred’s frown is set deeply into his face. “Are you sure you don’t need a physician?”

“No, no physician, just… just rest. Yes. Excuse me.”

He rushes from the room with all the dignity he can muster, thoughts racing. Uhtred—Uhtred. He had thought that this was a vision from God, that this experience was a test, but perhaps—perhaps it is something heathen, something altogether unholy. Perhaps that is why God has not answered Alfred’s prayers, perhaps it is something sent from Hell—perhaps it is not a punishment but instead a curse, the kind that Uhtred so feared from the sorceress Skade. 

Once, Alfred dismissed curses and spells, but Iseult saved Edward’s life, all those years ago, and the tonics she made did help Alfred himself while he was in pain, and Gisela was the brightest, greatest woman Alfred had ever met, and she, too, believed in spells and sorcerers—and Skade, in the end, was not wrong, was she? Alfred himself did not live to see another summer— 

His heart seizing in his chest, Alfred bursts into his study and tears into his chambers, leaning against the desk and trying desperately to quiet his frantic breaths. They don’t hurt to take, and it’s still a miracle—or maybe not a miracle, maybe he has been wrong, it would not have been the first time— 

But he must have faith; he must have faith that this is part of God’s plan, whatever it may be, wherever it may lead. All Alfred truly knows is this: God’s plan has always put Uhtred in Alfred’s path, has always entwined them in spite of Alfred’s attempts to the contrary, and God will have put Uhtred back into Alfred’s path with a curse or without one. 

And Uhtred has never, in all the years Alfred has known him, mistaken Alfred for a fool; he will hardly think twice about Alfred inquiring into a pagan’s beliefs just as he had taught Leofric all that he knew of Danish strategy in war. No, Alfred will—he will wait for Uhtred’s appearance, for God will ensure it, and then he will get his answers, reassure himself and his wildly running mind, his panic-stricken heart. 

Alfred does not know what powers brought this about. He does not know why, or how, he has come back in this way, or what it means.

What he does know is this: the Danes have just taken East Anglia, led by Ubba. He knows that either way—a curse, a vision sent by God—he has never shied away from duty. He has never cowered from the sacrifices demanded of him, nor has he hidden from his responsibilities. He knows his brother dies in mere months. He knows that he is no longer in pain—that he is young again, that England is merely an idea now, but that it almost comes to fruition. He knows that he was close to it, and in the end he was felled not in battle, but failed in body.

And he will be damned if he lets it all happen the same gruesome way again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred has never had a crisis of faith before. And he is not having one now, of course: he knows that God must have a plan, must have a reason for sending him back, or else letting him see his future in its' entirety. It would be nice if God answered one of his prayers, though. Just this once. God help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow thank you guys so much for the comments? i admit i really wasn't expecting much from this au but you all have been incredibly nice here and on tumblr and on discord. This story is really fun to write and I'm just, really glad that people are enjoying it. you guys really inspired me and I churned this out in literally 24 hours so!!!!! i hope u guys really like this chapter too!!!!  
> i've actually been daydreaming about like, how I think the story will go, and holy crow it's... gonna be long.  
> oh also i forgot to mention ! my good friend ted came up with the tag "they had an internal love" so there's the credit where the credit is due!  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter !!
> 
> -ro

_our paths, they cross_

He begins to write.

He starts from the end: that is freshest in his mind, and he doesn’t want to think back and have details muddled. Better to start from the end and backtrack, and as details arise he’ll make notes in the margins, and then he’ll rearrange his notes to chronological order. This will prevent him from missing anything in the beginning because he’s managed to forget some unearthed piece of the story.

He starts with his death. He’s sure, now, that he died, in his vision or otherwise: he remembers the weakness of his breaths, the heaviness of his chest, the feeling of himself fading away like dust on the breeze. Remembers the fear that gripped him, even at the very end, of being unremembered.

He spends the better part of his days scribbling it all out, and when he breaks for lunch he’s wholly unsatisfied with the progress he’s making, day by day. The story is long and complicated, and he is old enough to finally admit that he’s too wordy by far, and most of these notes have strayed into the emotional side of narration rather than the strictly factual.

But how is he to separate what he felt from what occurred? Is it not still important to depict his reactions at the time so he can compare them to his reactions of whatever present this might be, so he can better prepare himself?

Lunch is spent, as always, with Aelswith and Aethelflaed. And Aethelflaed, good Lord—she is only a child, barely eleven, so much smaller than his memory serves. His eyes are wet when he hugs her for the first time, and the fifth, and the twentieth—and how can they be dry when he is hugging his little girl, the same that grows into a fearsome leader, a warrior in all but name?

He delights in listening to Aelswith and Aethelflaed talk among one another, the conversation flowing and light, and he even suffers the gruel with a tolerance that surprises even himself. After years and years of sacrificing his taste buds for the sake of his body’s peace, he has grown used to the texture. And Aelswith smiles so sweetly, even still, when he does not complain.

“You are smiling again,” she comments after Aethelflaed skips from the room to rejoin her lessons. “You are smiling much today.”

Alfred’s smile widens. “Can not a man smile for his wife?”

And then she blushes and lowers her eyes like they’re young again—which they are—and that makes him smile more, and he takes her hand and squeezes it and feels its familiar shape in his own. 

He also goes on walks. The pain of now is nothing like the pain it was—well, when he was dying, or when he died in the vision, or however he should best phrase it. Aelswith joins him sometimes, Aethelflaed joins him often, and he spends less time, to his surprise, praying. Every time kneels in the chapel and says his prayers, he thinks inexplicably of Uhtred, of that day so long ago on the hilltop overlooking Werham, when he had demanded why Uhtred not pray and Uhtred had responded with scathing disdain: “I pray every day, Lord, _silently_.”

So Alfred starts to pray every day, silently as Uhtred does—or did. After all, Uhtred had been right: God created everything that surrounds them. If Alfred still attends church at the prayer times, should he not content himself with praying privately wherever he wishes?

So he does. He kneels at the side of his bed before Aelswith wakes, at times during the night when he wakes in a cold sweat remembering Ethandun, which has always given him nightmares, or else wakes from being jolted awake by what he has started to refer to as _the shadowing_.

It is a feeling that slips upon him when he is drifting off, a sudden terror that if he falls asleep he will never wake again and all will be lost, the feeling of God abandoning him. He slides from bed in his shift and prays until the sky begins to lighten with the sun, and then slides back into bed to rest in the warmth of Aelswith’s arms and pretends that he has gotten a full night’s rest.

Still, it begins to wear on him and show. Dark smudges appear beneath his eyes; he is paler, and the stomach pains come more frequently. He knows he should sleep well while he has the luxury of it, while the crown does not rest heavy on his head and he isn’t responsible for the whole of England—but in many ways, every way, doesn’t it still? Doesn’t the knowledge he possesses still make him the only one who can champion an England under one god?

Alfred is sure that those close to him notice the difference that has taken over him. Aethelred is obliquely concerned, and sends foods that agree with Alfred’s stomach to his chamber at random intervals. It is something to get used to, his brother being breathing again—and Alfred is torn between spending as much as humanly possible with him, knowing he will die, or spending intervals away, to make his parting easier when it does happen. 

And the Lords Odda, the councilmen, the members of the Witan—Wulfhere, the traitor, and Leofric, who is felled at Ethandun—how can he look them in the face when he knows of their fates? How can he look at Lord Odda, his brother’s greatest friend and Wessex’s most loyal man, and know he died in the dungeons as a traitor? How can he look upon Lord Odda the Younger? 

So yes, people notice the change. They do not ask but, Alfred is more than sure, they wonder.

Aelswith knows, but she also knows that he has had a message from God (or, of course, through less holy means.) The discussion that they have is inevitable, really.

“Why not tell people?” She insists for what feels like the hundredth time. “Why not consult the bishops, the priests?’

“God has given this to me for a reason,” Alfred says, and takes her face in his hands. “To me alone. I feel it is a test I must face and conquer alone. I have told you, my Aelswith, because I know I will always be at your side, and you always at mine. But God has told me, in my heart, that this is a test I must endure alone.”

And she is touched and soothed in turns, still worried for him, always, but he kisses her forehead and then her lips and she is content enough.

But that does not negate the fact that the others know. That they notice. That, if prompted, he could not provide them with an explanation if he tried.

The great benefit to being fifty years old and having lived through many battles, advisors, scars and otherwise is that Alfred simply doesn’t care anymore who notices what. He’s received enough criticism, and enough faith, to know that it won’t matter in the end. Nothing really matters, apparently, in the end. This certainly isn’t Heaven.

It is all part of God’s plan, but did God cause this? This has never been heard of or recorded. Alfred knows every single scroll in his library as well as he knows his own hands: there are no records. He has been to Rome and spoken to the Pope and been chosen as God’s king, but no one has ever spoken of this. Is it not right for him to seek answers?

Father Beocca finds him one day on one of his walks. The day is particularly nice for winter: the sun is actually out, and he’s enjoying the solitude, praying as he meanders.

“Lord,” Beocca calls, and trots a little to catch up.

“Father Beocca,” Alfred greets. It still strikes him how young Beocca looks. His hair is not white, and his face is smoother, uncarved by grief and pain and battle. “How are you?”

“Well Lord, I am well. And yourself?”

“Enjoying the weather.”

“Yes, so I see.” Beocca keeps pace with him for a minute, the two of them taking in the pale sunlight. “I… wished to speak with you, Lord.”

“About Uhtred? Of Bebbanburg?”

Father Beocca’s face reflects his surprise. “No, Lord, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you know of his name. I thought it prudent to mention him in council, considering I know him.”

Alfred hums.

“What I really wanted to speak of was… your attendance, Lord, in church,” Beocca says, and sounds nervous in a way Alfred cannot recall him being, but that he knows time must have worn away. “I… feel that you are not your usual self. You have often in the past come long before the other parishioners to pray and remained long after midday and evening prayers, though now I have observed you coming and leaving—well. At the same time as the other parishioners.”

“And this… troubles you.”

“Yes, Lord, it does. Only that I—well.” Beocca lowers his voice. “There are rumors, Lord, that you are unwell, suffering more lately, prone to resting. I feel that this might be a result of… your lack of attendance, of—of your former attendance, that is. You certainly aren’t skipping church, but I feel that God may… be slighted.”

God help him, but Alfred can’t help the amusement that rises in him. “I still pray, Father Beocca, silently,” he says. “I simply am doing so in my solitary. I believe God comes with us wherever we are, that he has created everything around us. Would you agree?”

Beocca hesitates. “I… would, yes, Lord.”

“And would you agree that prayers reach God’s ears, wherever we are? Thus is why we bring priests to battle, and pray beforehand, and pray before bed, and so on.”

“...Yes, Lord.”

“I am praying right this very moment,” Alfred says pleasantly, for it’s true, and he takes a certain amount of pride in it because pride has always been his sin. “I find that I have… felt God’s presence in a different way, recently. I am not questioning my faith, but have simply… shifted it slightly.”

“That… troubles me, Lord.”

“Does it.”

“Yes, yes, gravely, in fact. It is only through our great love and fear of God that we can achieve his holy wishes.”

And _God help him_ , but he’s curious. He’s never questioned his faith before—and he certainly isn’t now. But he thinks of Skade, thinks of Iseult and baby Edward, thinks of Gisela and Uhtred and Beocca’s wife, Thyra, and wonders. “I am praying,” Alfred says, in a tone that brooks no further argument. “Thank you for your concern, Father Beocca, but all is well.”

Father Beocca has nothing to say to that, presumably, because he bows and leaves Alfred to his peace, and so he walks in the sunlight, cold air on his face and in his lungs, and prays for God to help him in any way He deems fit.

  
  
  


Alfred takes to locking the book up after that.

Perhaps he has grown suspicious in his old age, or perhaps some of Uhtred has finally rubbed off on him, but he keeps things to his breast now and when he is not carrying the book he is locking it in the chest of furs at the foot of his and Aelswith’s bed. He’s careful to do it out of sight: he doesn’t want to worry her, or have her go looking. He wasn’t lying when he told her that this is a test for him alone to pass. But most of the time, he carries the book on his person, too paranoid to leave it in the chest of furs.

He handles the information his spies give him, organizes it in the way he prefers now rather than the way he preferred the first time around, and learns of Ubba, of Guthrum, all over again. He learns that Ubba has sent out men into Mercia inquiring after Uhtred: learns that it must be soon that their paths finally cross again even though, to Alfred, it has been mere weeks.

He’s writing down the details of Aethelflaed’s kidnapping when Father Beocca disturbs him.

“Lord,” he says, a little out of breath for excitement. “It’s him, Lord, Uhtred of Bebbanburg. He’s here to meet with you.”

Alfred’s heart leaps, and he struggles to school his face not to reflect it. “Yes, thank you, Father Beocca. I will meet with him momentarily.” He blows on the page so that the ink doesn’t smudge, closes the book, tucks it under his arm, and takes careful, measured steps to the courtyard. 

He’s hot and cold all at once; he’s jittery and yet calm, nervous but not. Uhtred. Uhtred is here, and finally he may get some answers. And when he reaches the courtyard, he allows himself the luxury of stopping to observe, to regain his breath.

Uhtred and Brida are conversing in Danish, tones low but amiable. Alfred’s Danish, which has improved vastly over time, helps him to pick up more of the conversation than he recalls the first time around: they talk along the lines of how nice the courtyard is, how peaceful.

 _If your god is with you, then you are a lucky man,_ Uhtred had said.

“The Romans built this courtyard,” Alfred says finally, and Uhtred and Brida whirl around. “They built it for peace. Tranquility. I am pleased you agree that it is thought provoking.”

“You speak Danish?” Brida says at the same time Uhtred says, “you’re Alfred?”

And by God, Alfred cannot stop _looking_ at Uhtred. There’s no grey in his hair, no crinkles to his forehead, but he has his same Saxon nose, his same bright English eyes. That thirst for knowledge. His hair is long, but well kept; he is shorter than Alfred remembers, though maybe that is simply because it seemed that Uhtred towered over him, toward the end. He altogether looks very much like the same man Alfred left.

For some reason, Alfred had believed he’d look different.

“You’re Alfred?” Uhtred repeats.

“I am Alfred, and I do speak Danish,” Alfred says, clearing his throat. Unexpected emotion has caused a lump to form, and at the silliest of things, too: Uhtred’s English accent is rougher than Alfred remembers it being, disuse causing it to be sharper around the edges. Uhtred’s _d’s_ are still as of now pronounced as hard _t’s._ “Though I would prefer we remain speaking English for the benefit of the others in our presence.”

“Of course.”

Brida eyes him. Alfred, this time around, hopes—well. He hopes to earn her respect. It is clear she and Uhtred love one another, however that may be, and Uhtred, for all his faults, has never been a wild man. Simply unkeepable. Perhaps Alfred was foolish to hope to do so in the first place.

Alfred clears his throat again. “Come. We may speak further in my study.”

They speak of Danes, of knowledge outside of books, of Earl Ragnar. The fractured grief in Uhtred’s expression is familiar to Alfred, for he’s seen it many times since this meeting, but sympathy tugs at him all the same. And that first meeting, he was purposefully hostile—purposefully trying to provoke Uhtred. But not this time.

“I would speak with you alone, Uhtred, if that is permissible,” Alfred says, and Uhtred looks up from where he’s watching a scribe take notes.

“Yes, Lord.”

Alfred nods, and gestures, and everyone—even Brida—rises to leave. She casts Uhtred one last, lingering look, gives him a scathing scowl the likes of which Alfred has never seen even on his worst enemies, and then Beocca shuts the doors on them and they are alone.

Alfred turns to the window overlooking the courtyard, clutching his book to his chest. “Tell me, Uhtred, how old are you?”

“Twenty seven.”

Alfred’s smile takes him by surprise—the wryness of it. “The truth, Uhtred.”

Uhtred hesitates. “I am to be twenty one, Lord, this coming summer.”

“Mm.” Alfred turns towards Uhtred again. “I want to trust you, Uhtred. But lie to me again, and I will never do so.” A fib—but a good one.

Uhtred’s expression flickers; he has not yet learned to hide them. He hasn’t needed to. “Yes, Lord,” he says carefully.

“I want to know about… the Danes. Their beliefs, their ability to fight. Their fears, and their faith. Would you instruct me?”

Uhtred stares. Alfred is certain Uhtred has never been asked such a thing by a Christian—much less by someone as pious as Alfred. “Why?”

“Because I am not a foolish man. My faith guides me, but it does not blind me.” Not anymore.

Uhtred seems to weigh this. He begins to pace around the room, a habit Alfred recognizes from many years of watching it. “And what will I receive, Lord, in return?”

“Silver.”

“I want to be seen as an Ealdorman.”

Alfred inclines his head. “That can be arranged. So long as I have your oath that you will teach me all that you know, and that you will be here should I need you.”

“Need me for what?” Uhtred turns and faces Alfred fully. “For results? Am I to be your pet project, like your spies?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a confidante,” Alfred says wryly. “But if that’s the terminology you prefer, then by all means use it.”

Uhtred frowns deeply. Alfred waits.

“Why?” Uhtred finally asks again. “Why take a chance on me? You do not know me.”

“No,” Alfred agrees, but a pang somewhere near to his heart does not. “But I know the kind of man you are, Uhtred of Bebbanburg. You are one that I would have at my side.”

“And the price? The price of me being your— _confidante?”_

Alfred takes a deep breath and steeples his hands as best he can while holding his book. “Much, I would imagine,” he says, thinking of Mildrith, of Iseult, of Gisela, of Uhtred’s children, and the many other good friends that Uhtred will come to lose. “I would not wish to confine you. You need not like me—nor, for the whole part, obey me. The Lord knows I have tried many times to make you—that is, people such as you—do so, and I have been burnt for it. No, I would not try to break a horse I knew could not be broken. Not a second time. I would, however,” Alfred dares to take a step closer. “Make an ally of him, and hear his council.”

Uhtred bites at his thumbnail for a time, pensive. Then he says, almost wryly, “horses cannot give council, Lord.” An admonishment, politely given. 

Alfred nods. “You are right. You would be a—private advisor, then. You do know the meaning of the word confidante?”

“You do know that I speak English properly, Lord?”

And God help him, Alfred has missed the snark as well. It’s queer how things that used to bother him unendingly have now inexplicably turned endearing—not just for Uhtred, but for everyone. Even Aethelwold’s tiresome drunkenness in the courtyard has a certain charm to it. Simpler times, Alfred supposes. He should record that as well, in his book.

“Lord,” Uhtred says, stirring him. “Tell me what you are thinking."

Alfred’s grip tightens on his book under his arm, and gives him away instantly. He thinks of the shadowing; thinks of how things are similar, and yet still so very different. Thinks of how changed he himself is. Thinks of what is to come. “I am thinking of... the contents of this book. It is… personal to me. A journal, of sorts. A record.”

“Of sorts.”

“Yes.”

They stare at one another.

“If you are to trust me, Lord, we may as well start now,” Uhtred says, and leans against a nearby table, and crosses his arms. “Tell me what you want to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much again for the encouragement, it means the world to me <3 i hope you enjoyed this chapter too!! if you liked this please leave me some feedback, and thank you so much for reading !
> 
> oh yeah, and come find me on [tumblr](https://f-ro-g.tumblr.com/) if you want !
> 
> much love,  
> ro


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The afternoon is spent in deep discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the support on this story!! I've been blown away by how sweet the reviews I've received have been !!!!!! like it genuinely is so amazing, thank you guys so much, ik I said all this last chapter but it really does mean so much to me  
> the alternative title to this chapter is Area Man Continues To Have Crisis of Faith: I'm Not In Crisis, He Says  
> i hope you guys like Alfred freakin out.  
> -ro

_where are we going now?_

The afternoon is spent in deep discussion. 

Father Beocca comes to check on them at some point past dark, bringing cut apples and fresh ale. “Lord Alfred, Uhtred,” he greets. “Ah—Brida is inquiring after you, Uhtred. As to when your business with Prince Alfred will be finished.”

Uhtred frowns around an apple slice. “Tell her I’ll see her at dinner,” he says, and Beocca’s eyes widen and dart to Alfred, and honestly that’s perfectly agreeable to Alfred, and so accustomed is he to Uhtred’s particular form of disrespect that he only nods.

“That’s acceptable, Beocca.”

“...I’ll leave you to it then, Lord. Uhtred.” He bows out and closes the door quietly behind him. 

Alfred waits several seconds, then clears his throat. “You were telling me about the Danish god of the sea—Nord.”

“Njord.”

“Ah—yes, of course.” Even after all these years, the pronunciation of certain Danish words fail him. “And he is the god of the ocean?”

“We have many gods of the ocean, Lord. Njord is god of the seafaring. He is the god of prosperity—of rich-giving. He is the winds, and the sea. If the wind is with you, then Njord is pleased.”

“And you sacrifice to him, as with the others?”

“Similarly, Lord. I know Young Ragnar sacrificed to Njord when he went on his journey to Irland.”

Alfred scratches it down in his book. He has folded a portion of pages to be ripped out, though he doesn’t express this to Uhtred. “And the others? The other gods?”

“There is Aegir, and Ran. They are… giants, Lord, and don’t always get along with the gods. Though it is said Aegir is on good terms with them. His wife Ran birthed nine daughters—the waves of the sea.”

Alfred writes that down too. None of this is pertinent to his situation, and the talk of giants and not just one but _several_ gods of the ocean is preposterous, but he is far from a fool, and the idea of clueing Uhtred into his situation so early on in their relationship is not one Alfred is keen on. Better to pretend to record all the information and then pick out the bits that are useful than simply ask outright.

He finishes copying down Uhtred’s words, and wets his quill again. “Any others?”

Uhtred sighs, jaw clenching. Then he gripes, “I wish you would simply ask me what you want to know rather than have me lecture you further on gods you take no interest in.”

Alfred slowly sets down his quill. “I told you I wished to learn of the Danes.”

“Yes but _why?”_ Uhtred presses, pushing off the table to come closer. “Why do you want to learn of the Danes? Why now? Why _me?”_

“I am collecting information. I have told you this.”

“What you have told me is half lies and deceit!” Uhtred shouts, and suddenly he’s in Alfred’s space, looming. “You say you want me to be your companion and yet do not tell me the truth! You insist on bringing me into your confidence and already give me none of it!”

“I will not explain myself to the likes of you,” Alfred hisses, slamming to his feet and upsetting the inkwell. It clatters to the floor, spilling, and goes unheeded. “You would do well to learn some respect. I will tolerate no more than your usual acidity, and you should be grateful I tolerate even that degree!”

“Well I suppose I should consider myself blessed!” 

“It would likely benefit your soul if you did!”

Uhtred clenches his hands at his sides, fuming. Alfred’s hands clutch the book to his chest, scooped up to protect it from the falling ink, but his fingers dig into the covers painfully. They glare at one another, Alfred unyielding and Uhtred stubborn, until Uhtred finally huffs and looks away.

Alfred’s hackles slowly begin to lower.

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” Uhtred scowls, mostly to himself. “Wasting my time.”

“Is that what Brida says?”

“That is what _I_ am saying.”

“Is it such a waste of time to you to collect information?”

“It is a waste of time when you know what you want to ask and are instead circling like a vulture,” Uhtred grinds out. “Lord.”

Alfred considers him, temper still high. “And _what_ is it that you have noticed about me, then, Uhtred? What is it you _possibly_ think you could know about me in the short span of time we have conversed?”

“What I’m more interested in is what _you_ know about _me,"_ Uhtred snaps, though with less heat this time. “You know I am of Bebbanburg. You know I come from Earl Ragnar, and have made an enemy of my uncle and of Kjartan. You know of Ubba, and my connection to him, though I haven’t yet mentioned anything of the sort. You ask about our gods but instead daydream about your own. And you say things about tolerating _‘my usual acidity,_ ’ that you would not try to ride a horse you knew would throw you off— _‘not a second time._ ’ My interest, _Lord,_ is what _exactly_ you know, and how you know it.”

The silence rings in Alfred’s ears.

He’d thought he’d stopped underestimating Uhtred years ago. Apparently not.

Uhtred leaves Alfred to his peace for a time, stalking to a different part of the room to inspect the scrolls there. Without the ability to read them he’s hardly kept busy, but Alfred recognizes the attempt for what it is and he, too, begins to wrangle his emotions back within his grasp. His thoughts, however, are untamable, and race freely.

After a small while, Uhtred returns to him and sits again on the table, taking another apple slice. He doesn’t speak—and this is something that Alfred is familiar with, their perpetual game of cat and mouse, back and forth, neither taking nor giving and yet somehow coexisting all the same. 

“...You are not wrong,” Alfred says finally, steepling his hands. “About my phrasing, that is. I have… I have said too much today. That I know now.”

Uhtred’s frustration radiates from him in waves, though he concentrates on his mug of ale.

“But,” Alfred continues, “I recognize that the decision is behind me now, and that I can only keep so much from you.” He tucks his hands beneath his chin, and begins his own slow lap of the room. “You see, it was almost two months ago now that I woke to find myself in a wholly different situation from which I left. I woke the same as I was twenty years ago, only I retain the memories I have lived through since then.”

Uhtred looks at him, frowning. “I don’t understand. You are... young, Lord.”

“Twenty eight this spring, though that’s not entirely relevant. What I mean to say is, I lived through twenty some odd years of my life, died on my deathbed, and woke here. Back in time, seemingly. I know it sounds preposterous. I have prayed on it—I pray on it every day, every hour that I can. But God has no answers for me, and since God has always deemed us bonded, I thought that perhaps you would know something from your gods. I thought, perhaps, that this could be a—a curse, or some sort. Something Hell-sent.”

More silence reigns. Alfred takes care not to pick at his sleeve, despite the overwhelming urge.

“It… is not unheard of, Lord,” Uhtred says slowly. “When Young Ragnar visited from Irland in my youth, he told the stories that the Irish believe. A queen named Niamh met a warrior called Oisín. She rode across the sea and took him as her lover. But they were from different worlds. Niamh was the queen of the Land of the Young, though there is some complex Irish word for it. After living a few years with Niamh, Oisín went back to Irland to visit his family, but three hundred years had passed in his absence.”

For a second, Alfred is haunted by the image of waking up, of expecting to find his wife, his children, and instead finding a changed world—a world where there is no God, there is no family, there is only Daneland and corpses where there should be graves, and he cannot find anyone he remembers anywhere, fallen to his knees with nowhere to go, Hell on Earth—

“Lord,” Uhtred says firmly, and just like that the vision is blinked away. 

Alfred’s gaze flies to Uhtred’s, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He cannot—he cannot breathe, he cannot draw air, his chest aches—

“Lord,” Uhtred repeats, and he sounds like he’s shouting from across a field, distant and faint. “Lord.”

“I—I—” but he can’t get any further, choking on his own lungs.

“Lord, you can breathe,” Uhtred says. He leans forward, grasping at Alfred’s flailing spare hand, the one not pressed to Alfred’s heart so he can feel its’ frantic beat. Without hesitation, Uhtred takes it and places it against his own chest. “Breathe, Lord. In,” he inhales. “Out. Slower, Lord, the goal is to take in as much air as you let out.”

Alfred shakes his head. His eyes burn with lack of air.

“You can breathe, Alfred,” Uhtred insists. “You’re just not letting yourself. Breathe in,” he exaggerates his inhale this time, lungs expanding beneath Alfred’s hand. “Out.”

If he suffocates here, will he wake up again two months in the past? Or will he be in Heaven? Maybe the tale of Niamh and Oisín is right and he will wake up hundreds of years later, maybe this is a sign, maybe—

“Lord,” Uhtred’s voice calls from miles and miles away, and blackness branches across his vision, and Alfred tries to think of a prayer but can’t and instead—

Blinks awake.

He’s looking at the ceiling of his and Aelswith’s chambers. For half a second he’s not exactly sure why—he doesn’t remember going to bed, much less even seeing Aelswith after. But then— 

He bolts upright.

“Lord!” There’s a clattering sound that reverberates through Alfred’s bones, and he jerks his eyes over—Uhtred is stooping low in a chair to grab whatever he’s dropped, and when he sits up again he looks relieved and aggravated in equal measure. “You startled me.”

Alfred’s heart pounds so hard his chest aches. “What am I doing here? How did I get here?”

Uhtred sighs and places the kitchen knife he was holding on the nightstand, leaning forward in his chair. “You fainted, Lord,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

Alfred stares. “I what?”

“Fainted, Lord.” To Uhtred’s credit, his voice is carefully neutral. “I moved you to your chambers.”

“You moved me?”

“I considered lying down next to you so if someone should come in they would think we were doing it purposefully, but I decided that your bed would likely be more comfortable.”

In spite of himself, a smidge of amusement rises in Alfred. His heartbeat is slow to calm, but Uhtred’s unwavering presence helps. It always has, if Alfred is being honest with himself, which he always tries to be. Maybe that’s why he really wanted Uhtred here—maybe that is why he couldn’t send Uhtred away, even at the end. 

Alfred clears his throat. “How long was I—was I here?”

“Out, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Not long, Lord. The candle has barely burned, and Beocca hasn’t yet fetched us for dinner. How are you feeling?”

Alfred takes a deep, shuddering breath, pressing his hand to his chest. “I am—fine, I’m fine. I simply…” his hand goes to his stomach. It wasn’t uneasy today—he hasn’t done anything to upset it, really. He’s never fainted because of it before, but he supposes with these changed circumstances…

“Lord?” 

Alfred looks at Uhtred for a long moment, measuring what he sees. Then he says, “I have never… experienced that particular symptom of my ailment before. I am simply caught by surprise.” His hands roam the covers, searching absently—and panic strikes. “Where is the book?!”

“Here, Lord,” Uhtred says, and opens the drawer to the nightstand. “I thought, in case someone should enter, you’d prefer it hidden.”

Alfred snatches it and holds it close, pressing it against his chest so hard that it begins to dig into his skin. He can breathe better with it here, with it held against his heart, with its secrets protected. With _his_ secrets protected.

Uhtred eyes him, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead he says, “as for your fainting, Lord, I don’t believe it was from—whatever ailment you suffer from. I’ve seen it happen to others before. My sister Thyra had an attack like this once. She was panicking, thought she couldn’t breathe, and fainted dead away. It took almost an hour to rouse her, though, so you are better than her in that regard. Lord.”

Alfred takes a deep breath, his first in what feels like an age, heartbeat finally slowing. Leave it to Uhtred, he thinks with a stab of annoyance, to assume he knows everything. “Ah. So your sister faints once, and now I am having attacks. I had no idea you were suddenly so knowledgeable in medicine.”

Uhtred scowls at him, eyes narrowing. “At least I am trying to find answers, Lord.”

“I am trying to find answers,” Alfred says irritably, swinging himself out of bed. “For the problem at hand, Uhtred.”

“And what is the problem, Lord?” Uhtred presses. “So you have woken up back in time, or else have suspended life like Oisín—were you not speaking today of how important it is to write events down so you will be remembered? If you were on your deathbed and now you are here, how are you to know that this is not fate? God’s will?”

“Because God is not heathen!” Alfred hisses. “This has never been recorded, not _once,_ in Christian doctrine! I have no choice but to assume that it is heathen no matter what God’s plan is!”

“Not recorded in Christianity?” Uhtred scoffs. “Do you not believe that God’s son came back to life, then?”

Alfred opens his mouth—

...and closes it.

“Jesus Christ died on the cross for our sins,” Alfred says lowly. “He did not—he did not wake immediately afterward. God sent him back upon his arrival in Heaven, with the aid of the Holy Spirit—” 

“Yes, three days, Lord, I remember. But what is the difference?”

“Jesus was God’s holy son, born of the Virgin Mary,” Alfred snaps. “It is entirely different!”

“Then what else do you have, Lord, what other evidence?” Uhtred demands. “You believe your god has a plan for each of us, maybe this is his plan for you! Maybe you are meant to do greater things! Did you do anything in your past life that might—” Uhtred gestures randomly with his hands. “Make you holy?”

The idea is ridiculous. Almost as preposterous as having more than one god of the ocean, of all things. But...

“Well,” Alfred says slowly. “I did have many call me God’s king.”

“Then maybe you’re God’s… messenger. He had messengers, didn’t he Lord?”

“Yes,” Alfred says absently. “Yes, He did.”

Uhtred looks at him steadily, and Alfred sucks in a deep breath and begins to pace again. “When I am lying down to sleep at night, I feel this… this creeping. It is darkness, it is shadow. It is… a familiar oblivion, that which I believe I felt right before I woke here and right after I fell asleep there—in… in the future. I…” Alfred’s hands tighten on the book. “I do not want to slip back into it. I don’t want it to claim me.”

Uhtred is staring at Alfred like he is suddenly something from another world. There’s no fear in Uhtred’s eyes, only a quiet, dire wonder, like he is looking at an animal that could kill him in a second. 

Alfred’s heart stutters.

“You are a _sceadugengan,”_ Uhtred says, voice hushed. “A shadow-walker.”

For some reason, the tone Uhtred uses doesn’t inspire much hope. “Explain,” Alfred clips.

“They have called me since I was a child,” Uhtred says, still hushed, like he’s afraid to speak of them too loud lest they melt from the shadows of the walls. “They are the unseen, Lord, that walk in the night, stay in the darkness. The prickle on the back of your neck, the feeling of being watched. They have the ability to walk through worlds, to toe the line between life and death.”

Alfred absorbs this, feeling vaguely sick. “So it is heathen.”

“Would you have preferred to be the holy spirit?”

“I would have preferred Heaven,” Alfred snaps. 

“Lord, this is the work of fate,” Uhtred insists. “This is God’s plan for you. If you know information that could change things for the better, then this is your second chance. It is an opportunity to save those you have lost, to—to triumph in battles that you never could. It is the possibility of seeing everything you ever wanted happen. The spinners—or your God—have brought you here for a reason. Whatever you do, Lord, do not waste it.”

Alfred looks at Uhtred, searching his face. He doesn’t find anything that hints at the man Uhtred will become—he does not see devotion, or, should he think to flatter himself, respect. But he does see determination. He does see Uhtred as he is. 

That will have to be enough.

“I think,” Alfred says, “it is time we retired to dinner.”

Uhtred nods, slowly. “Yes, Lord,” he says. “You ate no apple slices.”

“How could I, when you so generously helped yourself?”

“My sin has never been gluttony, Lord.”

“Just pride.”

Uhtred looks at him. “You do know me,” he says, and doesn’t sound surprised, or even resigned. He sounds… solid. Accepting. 

“I do,” Alfred agrees.

Uhtred nods again. “Then I hope someday, Lord, to know you too."

Then he lets himself out of the study, and leaves Alfred standing in the middle of the room, feeling warm and bereft in dizzying turns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the tale of Tír na nÓg](http://explore.blarney.com/tir-na-nog-the-story-of-niamh-and-oisin/)
> 
> King "maybe I'm the holy spirit" alfred at your service 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading and supporting me ! if you liked this please leave me your thoughts !
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://f-ro-g.tumblr.com/) !!
> 
> much love,  
> ro


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle at Aesces Hill goes differently than Alfred remembers.
> 
> Much, much differently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys as always for the support you're showing this story, it really drives me!!! These few beginning chapters are going so slowly because there's a LOT of exposition information that I gotta pack in here, but once we get past like chapter six it should pick up and begin to go much faster. Things are already ~changing~, in spite of what Alfred wants.
> 
> The alternative title to this chapter is: I Made You Like Him, Huh
> 
> i hope you guys enjoy!  
> -ro

_almost like it's kind of rehearsed_

Backtracking is out.

Now that he knows the events are set in motion, Alfred cannot afford to dally. He dog ears the pages of notes he’s recorded about shadow-walkers from the information that Uhtred provided, flips to an empty page in the book, and lists the events he can remember happening before Ethandun.

First is the battle at Aesces Hill, where his brother is mortally wounded. If Uhtred is here, then it must only be a scarce week away, maybe a week and a half. He doesn’t have much longer with his brother. There is… so much he wants to ask, so much he wants to know. 

It’s an odd thing, losing a sibling: entirely different from losing a parent, Alfred’s found. Parents are fragile, in the end—children are always meant to outlive their parents. He knows this as a parent himself. But siblings, no. Siblings, those that grew up beside you, when they die… well. 

It’s a different kind of pain. The pain that haunts Alfred even twenty years after Aethelred’s death.

Still—he cannot afford to dally, not now, so he tucks his grief neatly into a box and shoves it beneath the proverbial rug, right where he’s carefully folded the horror at being some shadow demon, and gets to work.

The battle at Aesces Hill, where Uhtred’s information is proven correct. Alfred locks Uhtred in the dungeons for that, he remembers; that’s when Uhtred requests to be seen as ealdorman and demands land. That’s what leads to his marriage to Mildrith, and ultimately what leads to their separation, to Uhtred going to plunder Cornwallum, to Iseult, to healing Edward. To Ethandun.

He has already revealed too much to Uhtred: that much is certain. Alfred wants to change the future, but the major events must stay the same to form Wessex: Ethandun must happen, Odda the Younger must die a traitor, Ubba must be killed, Guthrum must be baptized as Aethelstan, and more. If he alters things—if he sways Uhtred’s mind too much—he has no idea what could possibly come about, and then he’d simply be another blind man in the darkness of history, hoping to shed light on his legacy.

No, no—he must do this carefully. 

He could tell Uhtred that his reward is land, Alfred thinks slowly as he details Uhtred’s stay in the dungeons, his marriage to Mildrith, his request for Alfred to waive the debt. That day is embedded in Alfred’s mind: the words Uhtred spoke, the tone he used. _I pray everyday, Lord._ **_Silently._**

But he does not want the same tremorous relationship with Uhtred as he’d had, full of tension and murked in hatred. He hadn’t been lying when he’d claimed he wanted Uhtred for a confidante. 

Alfred once caught Aethelflaed telling Uhtred that he was the man she trusted most. Perhaps as a father he should have been jealous, or affronted, but instead he found himself, above all else, comforted. It had been Uhtred to rescue Aethelflaed from Beamfleot: Uhtred who had ensured her safety and well-being. It had been Uhtred who saved Edward, Uhtred who conquered Ethandun, Uhtred whose advice had made Alfred such a strong king. 

Alfred purposefully hadn’t written Uhtred into the Chronicle. He knows to whom all his triumphs and all his victories are owed.

It’s much more difficult to make the same decisions this time around, even when he is confident they’re the right ones. Especially when he respects those he must scorn.

He’s just rubbing at his eyes when there’s a knock on the study door.

“Enter,” he mumbles from behind his hands, ink stained fingers surely leaving marks on his cheeks. He doesn’t care. He’s much too old to care about Aelswith seeing him with ink marks.

But it’s not Aelswith who speaks.

“You missed dinner."

Alfred looks up.

His brother is framed in the lantern light that spills in from the hallway. His hair glows golden. He doesn’t wear the crown, but then Aethelred never felt the need to. He commanded all the power he required without it. He’s holding a plate, and overall looks exhausted and peaceful in turns, a balance Alfred himself never could find.

There’s something about the way Aethelred is standing, or the expression on his face, that makes Alfred’s heart throb sharply.

“Brother,” he greets, trying to sound casual as he finally sits back. His back protests, but not nearly as much as Alfred remembers it doing—the perks of youth. “I expected Aelswith.”

“Because I sound just like her,” Aethelred says, smiling. He comes forward and sets the plate beside Alfred’s book, which he closes with as much naturalness as he can. Not enough, it seems. “Writing in your diary, Alfred?"

“Something like that.”

Aethelred sighs, and sits on the table much in the same manner as Uhtred did only a couple days before. “I know something is troubling you,” Aethelred says. “You’ve barely eaten, you look like you’ve not slept. You have foregone prayers to slave away in this study of yours. Your wife and child miss you.”

Alfred’s stomach aches, but it’s not from his illness. “I didn’t mean to neglect them.”

“Nonsense,” Aethelred says. “You haven’t. I’m only saying that they worry for you, Alfred. I worry.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“And why is that?”

“You… have so many other things to worry over,” Alfred says, a little awkwardly. Fifty years old and still his older brother can make him squirm. “The crown, for one. The kingdom. The Danes that will—move in the… spring.”

Aethelred sighs. “All things that concern me,” he says. “But none more important than you.”

Alfred regards him. “You have an entire kingdom to run,” he says finally. “Danes at our borders, pushing ever inward. And yet you say that your most primary concern is my comfort.” Alfred pauses to collect his thoughts, trying to form the question that’s been on his mind since he became king. “How do you do it?”

Aethelred stares for a second, then blinks like it’s never occurred to him before. Maybe it hasn’t. “I know that, above all else, Wessex is my priority,” Aethelred says slowly. “But it does not occupy the same area of my thoughts as you do. As my son does, for example, errant as he is. I am king and father and brother.”

“King first,” Alfred points out.

“In that list, yes. But I was a brother before I was a father, and a father before I was a king. If it came down to draining Wessex penniless to save you, or, God help me, my fool of a son, I would drain Wessex penniless in an unfortunate heartbeat.”

The scenario is so familiar to Aethelflaed’s ransoming that for a second, Alfred believes, wholly and truly, that his brother knows, has figured it out somehow, has read the book or has had a vision from God. But Aethelred looks just the same as he always has, and he doesn’t speak with familiarity at all. It’s simply something he’s concocted in his mind, a worst-case situation that Alfred has had the deepest misfortune of seeing come true.

Alfred considers his next words carefully. “But the weight of it. Of being king, of having lives at your disposal. How do you bear it?”

Aethelred squints at him. Alfred again has to fight the urge to squirm. “Why are you asking me this?”

Alfred averts his eyes.

Aethelred watches him for another minute, then sighs. “I accept that I will never know the inner workings of your mind, Alfred. I rely entirely upon you to share them with me. But I hope you know that, if something is troubling you, I am always here for you. That is how I bear it.”

“What?”

“I think of Wessex as I think of you.” Aethelred pats his knee. “Sleep, Alfred. You look like death warmed over.”

Then he shows himself out, and Alfred is left sitting in the dark with a lone candle, wondering how in the world he’s allowing himself to consider not saving his brother.

  
  
  


Uhtred goes to Readingum.

Alfred has absolutely no idea why—even less of an idea than he had the first time around. The first time around he knew Uhtred was determined to prove himself, to either prove himself useful to Wessex or to Guthrum. Alfred hadn’t entirely been sure which Uhtred preferred.

This time, not only does he know where Uhtred’s loyalties lie, but Uhtred himself knows Alfred’s greatest secret. What more does Uhtred believe he must prove other than the keeping of it?

But truly, secretly, he’s grateful, and glad. The amount of favors he owed Uhtred in his last life had grown so high that Alfred felt he was drowning beneath them. He’d assumed this time around he’d have to begin that pile again, starting with Readingum.

Instead, Uhtred comes directly to Alfred.

“Lord,” he says as he storms into the study, Father Beocca and Brida trailing behind him. “Lord, I have information on the Danes at Readingum.”

Beocca’s hands wring. “Lord, he didn’t mean to interrupt,” he starts, but Uhtred takes a step closer, pressing.

“Lord, it’s urgent.”

Alfred closes the book. “That it is. Come—I will call the Witan.”

“Lord,” Uhtred exhales, a thank you that Alfred can recognize, and then they rush off so Uhtred can tell them of Guthrum’s army, of jackdaws, and of Aesces Hill.

The limited Witan listens with rapt attention; Odda the Elder is far more dismissive than Alfred can ever remember him being, but Alfred supposes that he himself was that dismissive, once. Aethelred, however, nods as Uhtred speaks, and Alfred can see the cogs in his head churning.

“He thinks we are jackdaws,” Odda the Younger says scornfully. 

Alfred’s temper flares. “You speak out of place,” he snaps, and everyone stops to stare. “Take care before you open your mouth, Young Odda.”

“I am only expressing my reluctance for us to trust in him, Lord,” Young Odda says, confusion etched into every feature. “He is a Dane, he looks like one, he speaks the language of one—he claims to be of Wessex but he’s been here a matter of days!”

Alfred narrows his eyes and bites down on his tongue so hard he tastes blood. Bitterness is a well inside him, and the water is high enough to touch with his fingertips. “You—”

“Enough,” Aethelred says firmly. “Now is not the time to be at each other’s throats.” He turns to address Uhtred. “You have given this Witan much to discuss. Alfred—what would you have us do with him?”

Alfred has been dreading this moment. His grip on the book tightens.

He’s gone over this in his mind hundreds of times—in prayers, before bed, writing in the book. Even during meals. It’s been ever present, at the front of his thoughts, unable to be ignored. 

The reality that Uhtred must hate him before all else.

The unfortunate thing about being king is this: Alfred has always, from the moment that his brother died, known that he must throw out the things he wants to make way for the things he must do. 

In order for Ethandun to happen, Edward must recover. In order for Edward to recover, Iseult must be present. And in order for Iseult to present, Uhtred must feel desperate enough to settle the debt he inherits through marriage that he plunders Cornwalum. And the only reason he really, truthfully does so is to spite Alfred in the same way Alfred spites him.

And that spite starts here. 

“I would rather be prepared than taken by surprise,” Alfred says. “And I would rather be on a hill than the flat.” 

Uhtred’s lips quirk. What Alfred once would have mistaken for a smirk, he now realizes is the attempt to hide a smile.

His stomach aches. He clears his throat. “Though Uhtred here may be telling the truth, we must be thorough, and we must be safe. I suggest we… take Uhtred and his companion into custody until we know for certain that they are not spies—”

“Lord,” Uhtred protests, his smile gone in an instant. He looks betrayed—worse: he looks hurt. “Lord no, why?!”

“—once we confirm that their information is sound and not dictated by Guthrum, we will, of course, release them—” 

“Lord!” Uhtred cries, and the awfulness of it rings in Alfred’s ears. “Lord, you know I am telling the truth! You must know—”

Leofric grabs Uhtred and yanks his hands between his shoulder blades. Still, he resists; Brida is snarling, “let go of me, let go—” at her own guard, snapping her jaw at them like she’ll bite them if they come too close.

Uhtred thrashes a little, and Leofric hikes his hands higher, forcing him to bend. “Father Beocca!” He calls, distressed. “Father Beocca, help me!”

“Have faith!” Beocca shouts over the din of Brida’s growl. “Have faith, Uhtred!”

_“Father Beocca!”_

But then their voices fade down the hall, the doors to the council room close, and Uhtred’s cries can’t be heard.

Alfred’s heart beats leagues a second. The world swims before his eyes, taking on a hazy, dreamlike quality. He… he doesn’t remember it being half as bad, the first time. Feeling half as awful. Had Leofric really positioned Uhtred’s hands that high, that close to being dislocated? And Alfred… Alfred, he…

“Alfred,” Aethelred says, and Alfred blinks.

“Yes. Yes, Aesces Hill.”

  
  
  
  
  


The battle goes similarly to how it went the first time.

They meet the Danes on Aesces Hill and take them by surprise; Guthrum and his men must fight uphill. The sun comes out to shine into their eyes, God’s blessing, and they are far outnumbered by the Wessex troops. 

Alfred truthfully remembers very little of battle itself: it’s a blur of sights and sounds, the acrid stench of blood and the gleam of a wet sword. There’s no time to stop and think; the men have not yet been taught the advantages of a shield wall, so there is no bait and switch like Alfred is familiar with. 

Instead, they hold their position on the hill and force the Danes to charge up to them; by the time they reach the top, they are tired and easier to kill. That said, it’s by no means _easy,_ but Alfred has Ethandun to compare it to, and, well. Nothing will ever compare to the bloodbath at Ethandun.

Alfred fights his way closer to Aethelred. He stands out fairly well; his crown glints against the sun, and he’s a god deal taller than many of the men around him, though that may be Alfred’s mind playing tricks on him. Lords Odda and Wulfhere fight close to his side, protecting his left and right, but there’s no one on his flank—so that’s where Alfred heads.

He wades through blood and bodies, taking care picking his way around the ones that have yet to slide down to the base of the hill, beating back enemies as he goes; the Danes are vicious, but they’re outnumbered and Alfred remembers well his lessons, as old as he is. His body, though it’s not as trained as he remembers, seems to know exactly how to wield his sword; it reacts instantaneously and without thought, muscle memory. He cuts through foes like they’re made of paper.

So he’s nearly there, nearly made it, when the axe comes down.

He sees it before Aethelred does; he opens his mouth, screams a warning that gets lost in the din of battle, but Aethelred is in the middle of turning to defend himself when he goes down in a whirl of agony, his pained shout echoing across the battlefield. 

Alfred’s feet get stuck in the mud, and he stands there, heart pounding and ears roaring, as he watches his brother crumple to his knees. Odda and Wulfhere are upon him instantly, swarming to him like moths to flame, but Alfred knows—he knows, he remembers that very same wound, too deep for any healer to help; he remembers Aethelred’s trembling fingers clutched in his own, Aethelred’s gasping, raspy breathing, _you must be king in my stead, Alfred_ —

Alfred screams again, and begins slaughtering with abandon.

He thinks of nothing; battle rage consumes him, makes his vision tunnel red. He cannot feel his arms; his mind is detached from his body, every nerve sharpened and alert and instinctive. There’s no room for thought. Only action.

By the time he makes it to Aethelred’s side, the ground around him is stained with his blood.

“Alfred,” Aethelred chokes, and blood bubbles up from between his lips—a bitten tongue, Alfred thinks, because men who cough blood die much sooner than Aethelred does, Aethelred waited two whole days for them to return to Wessex, to be in front of the Witan—

“Alfred,” Aethelred coughs, more red, and Alfred throws his sword down and falls to his knees, grasping at Aethelred’s wandering hands.

“I’m here,” Alfred says, rough. “I’m here.”

“Alfred,” Aethelred chokes, eyes huge and pained, face gaunt already with blood loss. The blood—of course, of course, pressure, pressure on the wound—

Alfred abandons his hold on Aethelred’s hands and grabs at his surcoat, ripping it down the middle so he can press it to the gushing wound near Aethelred’s collarbone. It’s nicked him close to his neck, further from his chest—had it been this bad the first time? Had it been this bad, or had Alfred somehow changed this, had Alfred _done this?_

“You will—be king,” Aethelred croaks, more blood dribbling between his lips. “You must—you must look after Wessex—”

“No, no, you’re not going anywhere,” Alfred says, and presses down harder. Aethelred coughs, and a spray of blood bursts forth into Alfred’s face. He doesn’t even notice. “Aethelred, you cannot go, not now, not when I have decided to save you—”

“I cannot stay,” Aethelred gasps. “I cannot stay—Alfred, you are to be king, do you—you must—”

“I cannot lose you,” Alfred admits, and tears prick at his eyes. “I have lived twenty years without you, I cannot—I cannot do it again."

Aethelred’s hand weakly grasps at his chainmail. In spite of the pain he must be in, he smiles, bloody but soft. “I have always thought of—Wessex, as I have thought of you,” he rasps. “You… will be king. Promise—me.”

Alfred blinks the tears from his eyes. “I promise,” he swears thickly.

Aethelred exhales, panting for air. His eyes find the sky.

“They’re retreating!” Someone shouts, and Alfred’s head snaps up. “The Danes are retreating! We’ve won!”

Cheers erupt around him, the battle won, the men celebrating their victory. He watches the Danes turn tail and run into the trees, some of the Saxons pursuing them past the treeline, those who are still invigorated by battle.

Alfred turns back to Aethelred—

but he is still staring at the sky.

Cheers are still going up around them. The sky is cloudy. Aethelred looks at a cloudy sky.

Alfred, for a moment, lets himself imagine that Aethelred is only praying.

But only for a moment.

So caught up is he that he nearly forgets where they are. Aesces Hill—the battle.

The battle. 

It started similarly to how Alfred remembered it—

but it ends much, much differently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told you i made you like him :^)
> 
> leave me a comment tellin me how much u hate me now uwu
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://f-ro-g.tumblr.com/) !!
> 
> much love,  
> ro


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his mind, Alfred knew that in the grand scheme of things, Aethelred’s death is necessary to the formation of a united England. In his mind, Alfred knew, to some extent, that he would have to fail.
> 
> But his heart is a foolish thing, one that rarely listens to his mind, and it has been more than broken by this failure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my life got flushed down the toilet i apologize for the wait everyone ! thank you for your words of encouragement both here and on tumblr, it's truly and sincerely appreciated and means so much to me <3  
> i like to call this little number... I'm Falling Apart And So Too Is Alfred  
> pleas enjoy :^)  
> -ro

_where do we go?_

They return to Winchester.

It is not the harried hustle that Alfred remembers. They trek home, victorious but grim. Aethelred is carried on a stretcher hoisted by his personal guards. His crown still lays atop his head. His eyes have been closed, his hands folded on his chest as if in prayer.

Alfred trails close behind, quiet.

He’d failed to save Aethelred.

In his mind, Alfred knew that in the grand scheme of things, Aethelred’s death is necessary to the formation of a united England. In his mind, Alfred knew, to some extent, that he would have to fail.

But his heart is a foolish thing, one that rarely listens to his mind, and it has been more than broken by this failure.

Beocca attempts to speak to him several times. Alfred doesn’t bother waving Beocca off: he can’t even understand what Beocca’s saying. There’s no use in upsetting him when Alfred can’t make out his words either way.

Everything is a blur. A slow, slow blur. It is a dense fog, a hazy film over Alfred’s eyes, bathing the world in shades of murky grey. 

He’d failed to save Aethelred.

At some point, Aethelwold comes to stand beside him. Alfred is far too weary to greet that particular battle yet—not after this last one has been so disastrous. For Aethelwold’s part, he looks pale and drawn and scared, not at all like a boy ready to step into a king’s shoes. 

Parading through the streets of Winchester, the joy of their return is muted. The people can sense what has gone wrong this time: they know that something is wrong by the feeling in the air. 

He doesn’t remember the procession through the streets. He lets his body take him where it will, muscle memory, and only blinks back to himself as armor is being lifted from his outstretched arms. He doesn’t know the man’s face, doesn’t remember him at all. Would Aethelred have known him?

There’s a knock—the door swings open.

Aelswith.

“Aelswith,” he breathes, and instantly some distant, wounded part of him is soothed. Hackles he hadn’t realized were rucked now begin to tuck themselves back into place simply thanks to her presence.

“Alfred,” she says, and comes to him, and cups his face in her hands. “Alfred, my dear. I heard about the king.”

The king. Aethelred.

Alfred’s eyes sting all at once in a way that almost takes him by surprise, so murky has the world been since the battle. A lump forms in his throat. His breathing thickens. “I tried to save him. I—I failed.”

“No,” Aelswith says, equal parts firm and gentle, and swipes her thumb beneath his eye. Alfred hadn’t even realized tears had fallen. “No, Alfred, this isn’t your fault. This isn’t your fault.”

But it is. It is. He knew what was going to happen, and he failed anyway. What use is that advantage if he can’t use it properly? To save the ones he loves?

“Alfred, come back to me,” Aelswith says, and strokes his cheek. “Come back. What can I do?”

Alfred’s heart is broken. Every breath in aches.

“Make me forget,” Alfred says, a plea, and Aelswith kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s as Aelswith is dozing in his arms and Alfred is staring at the ceiling that he remembers.

Uhtred.

His sudden jerk disturbs Aelswith. “What’s the matter?"

“I must attend to things,” Alfred says, tumbling out of bed and struggling to both pull his trousers over his legs and shrug his tunic on at the same time. “There is much to be done.”

“That can wait,” Aelswith says, exasperated in her demure way, and Alfred lunges for the nightstand where he’s stashed the book away. He can’t afford to dally, and if Aelswith asks he can simply explain it away as one of his all-important documents— “Can it not wait, Alfred?”

“I’m afraid not my dear,” Alfred says, cradling the book like he used to cradle his children and casting his eyes one more time over his wife and their bed, memorizing how beautiful she looks in the soft candlelight. “I’m afraid not. I will be back soon, I promise.”  
  
“Perhaps you should rest, you’ve had such a long day—the battle,” Aelswith protests, and Alfred crosses to her side of the bed so he can press one last, long kiss to her lips, still rosy from their passion. 

“I will rest when I have the time,” Alfred says, like he’ll ever have the time, like he didn’t even have time when he was _dead._ “I will be back as soon as I can.”

Then he slips out of their chambers, mind racing. First to free Uhtred, have him sent to the study—then to… what? There’s nothing Alfred can do to prepare for the Witan tomorrow; as it is, he won’t even be allowed to sit in and observe. That’s what he’ll do after meeting with Uhtred: he’ll go to the chapel and pray there, perhaps 'til morning, or until his knees simply can’t stand kneeling any longer, though they can certainly withstand kneeling far more than he remembers. Getting used to being young again isn’t quite as easy as he’d hoped. 

He flags down the nearest guard and has just finished instructing him when he, quite literally, nearly runs into Lord Odda.

“Prince Alfred,” Odda says, expression heavy with grief. His eyes are red and swollen, though Alfred is sure he hardly looks better; he hadn’t even checked his reflection before leaving his chambers. “Are you alright?”

“Lord Odda—I am. I am as well as can be expected.” Alfred clears his throat. “And you?”

Odda sighs. He looks older than, Alfred thinks, he has ever seemed. “I am… coping.” He hesitates, expression flickering, then finally he reaches into his tunic and pulls out a roll of parchment. “Your brother, he left this. Told me to give it to you should—should anything… happen.” Odda huffs a little. “I told him it was foolish, that it was nonsense to prepare for such a thing, but… well. Here.”

Alfred stares at it for a moment. It’s a tiny thing, rolled as small as possible, fastened with the king’s unbroken seal. Then he stashes it in his own tunic, and clears his throat again. “Thank you, Lord Odda, I will. I will read this in my own time."  
  
“Of course, Lord.” Odda bows slightly. “I will leave you, now. The Witan will be meeting in the morning to announce the new king.”

Alfred’s stomach cramps so suddenly that a low grunt escapes him. His hand automatically flies to his gut, rubbing in little circles. “I am aware.”

Odda eyes him, then nods. “Very well. See you tomorrow, Lord.”

Alfred grimaces more than smiles, but Odda ambles off all the same, looking deep in thought. Alfred concentrates on breathing.

When he’s recovered enough to stand upright, he forces his way to the study in a slow shuffle. The guards are few and far between in the hallways here at night, the torches lit just enough to see by and nothing more. Alfred has never noticed before how many shadows stretch between them, but he’s grateful for them all the same for disguising his painstaking pace.

Finally, the study doors loom—and with it, the figures of two guards, and Uhtred. Predictably, he’s scowling, or whatever pout Uhtred is attempting to pass as a scowl. He hasn’t quite perfected it yet.

“Lord,” the guards greet, bowing. Uhtred simply looks at him, steely.

“You may leave us,” Alfred says, waving his hand. The guard hesitates. “Now, please.”

“...Yes, Lord.”

The door shuts, and then it’s just the two of them.

Alfred puts the book on the nearby table, threads his fingers together, and waits.

After several beats, Uhtred finally breaks the silence. “I believe my hearing may need to be checked, Lord.”

Alfred inclines his chin.

“For I could have sworn that you named me your confidante, though I must have been mistaken. I have little doubt that a prince who would trust someone he barely knows with his biggest secret would not then proceed to _lock said person in the dungeons for days!”_

“Ah. You are frustrated.”

Uhtred’s hands clench around air, like he wants to grab his hair or wring Alfred’s neck or both. “ _Yes_ , I’m frustrated, Lord! I’m frustrated because you insist on speaking in riddles! Can you not speak plainly and tell your meaning behind your actions, or am I left to grapple in the dark?!”

Alfred lets that sit for a minute, allowing Uhtred time to get his breathing back under control. Then he says, quietly, “the King is dead.”

Uhtred’s head snaps up. “King Aethelred?”

“Died on the battlefield. I knew it would happen, of course,” Alfred says, almost casual but for the grief that rumbles his gut. Slowly, he sinks into the nearest chair. “I thought, perhaps, that I could begin to change the course of the future. I knew that in order for me to become king, Aethelred would need to die, but… I suppose I thought myself capable of doing both, of saving Aethelred and becoming king. Perhaps I thought that I’d rule at Aethelred’s side, instructing him.”

Uhtred’s anger has slowly drained away, leaving him pink cheeked and troubled. He takes a seat opposite Alfred. 

“I failed to save him, you see,” Alfred says, the words welling up without his consent, spilling over his lips as though from a dam broken. “I knew it would happen, that he would be struck. And still I was not able to save him.”

Uhtred’s brows draw together. He traces the grain on the wood of the table, and Alfred redirects his gaze to the oil lamps on the walls. They’re mostly unlit, though the scholars tend to leave one or two burning through the night, so penchant is Alfred to wandering here. He doesn’t stay in the chambers off this study—not since Guthrum broke into Winchester, all those years ago—but that has never prevented him from coming here in the dead of night.

Finally, Uhtred makes a low humming noise. “Losing a sibling is a pain I would not wish upon anyone,” he says slowly. “And so I am sorry to hear that you have lost yours. Perhaps it is fate that you are meant to become king.”

“But how do I know which events are dictated by fate and which can be influenced?” Alfred presses. “Clearly I have done something for Aethelred’s death to have changed this time around—last time it was much slower. We had made it back to Winchester before he… before. And yet this time, he bled out right there on the field.”

“The act of you attempting to change things could have some influence,” Uhtred says, though he sounds unsettled. “Certain things must happen: that we know. The spinners do not deign to change the way of fate for just anyone. There must be something that you have yet to accomplish.”

“How can I know what I have not accomplished if I am to be punished for changing things,” Alfred grits.

Uhtred frowns. “Punishment though you may believe it, Lord, what has happened is what needed to happen. You will be king.”

“At the cost of my brother’s life!”

“That has always been the price, Lord. You knew this.”

And, God help him, Alfred did.

“So fond I was of riddles,” he mutters, fingers reaching out to trace idly over the book’s cover. “Such a fool I’ve been, thinking I can solve everything.”

Uhtred watches his hands, lips pursed. “Lord. What is past is past: there’s no use in thinking on it now—on letting it consume you. You must look to the future, to what will happen now that you will be declared king.”

 _“If_ I’m declared king,” Alfred says mildly.

“Lord?”  
  
“Aethelred’s son has a legitimate claim to the throne. Without my brother’s dying word pronouncing me king, I’m afraid there’s not much I can do to ensure that I will, in fact, fill my brother’s role.”

Uhtred stares at him. “Why wasn’t he declared king the first time?”

“He was absent for it, mostly, and a drunkard. My brother announced me to be his successor in front of the entire Witan. Aethelwold held no claim.”  
  
“And his being a drunkard will not stop the Witan from choosing him?”  
  
 _“I don’t know!”_ Alfred snaps. “That is the point, Uhtred, I don’t _know.”_

They sit in silence for a few moments. Alfred’s anxieties race, the conversation having done nothing to soothe them: if anything, his worry has reached new heights. It is late: the moon is out. The Witan will be meeting tomorrow, or maybe later today, whatever the time may be, and he can do nothing but sit here and pray and hope that things do work out in his favor.

It’s Uhtred who breaks the peace—for whatever the word is worth. “Lord. I was not lying earlier about my hearing.”

He’s so taken off-guard by the dryness that he only blinks, anger forgotten. “Care to elaborate?”

“Only if you will do so in return,” Uhtred says. “I’d like to know why you locked me and Brida in the dungeons. No sidestepping, or word play. I simply want the truth, in whatever capacity you are willing to give it.”

Alfred eyes him in the half-light. His stay in the dungeons hasn’t been comfortable: he doesn’t smell, but he does carry the scent of sweat. There are pieces of hay sticking out of his hair in places, and circles have already formed under his eyes from the lack of quality sleep.

Alfred feels a stab of guilt, near to the grief he carries for Aethelred.

“You knew that the information could be trusted, Lord,” Uhtred presses. “I know you did. So why did you lie?”

“I did not lie,” Alfred says sharply, and then rears back from his own temper. He takes several deep breaths. “I did not lie,” he repeats, more levelly. “The Witan was suspicious of you—they have good reason to be, however truthful you may have been. I simply gave them the reassurance they required.”

Uhtred’s tone is flat. “And didn’t warn me.”

“Well, your reaction would hardly have been genuine otherwise.”

Uhtred stares at him. “I don’t understand you,” he says. “You claim to trust me, then turn around and offer me insult. And when I inquire as to the reason, you are dismissive about it. I offered you my sword and you did not take it. You have not even apologized.”

“I suppose you believe I should.”

“Yes, _Lord,_ I do!” Uhtred pushes himself out of his chair, scowling. “Like it or not I am an ealdorman, and want to be seen as such! I will not be treated as some lowly peasant you can play with as you please! I will not be your pawn, and if that is what you think you can make me then by all means, try. But you will be making a mistake. Lord.”

Alfred sighs. Once, he might have gotten angry. Maybe he should be angry. But mostly, he’s tired, not in body but in spirit. He really thought he’d be able to rest in the afterlife. He’d thought a lot of things. 

He sighs again, and steeples his hands on the table. “Only you can make such a word as _lord_ sound like an insult, Uhtred. I am, contrary to what you believe, not trying to make you an enemy. But certain events will not transpire, those which need to transpire—be it due to fate or God’s plan—they will not come to be if I do not partake in specific behaviors and actions.”  
  
Uhtred huffs, disbelieving. “And throwing me in the dungeon was one of them?” 

Alfred looks at him. “Yes.”

Uhtred stares, baffled. Alfred watches as his hackles slowly begin to lower. 

“Do you understand?” Alfred says softly, as Uhtred retakes his seat. “Do you understand now why things must be just-so? Now more than ever, I understand that. I attempted to warn my brother of the blow: that’s true. You were correct, earlier. My warning caused him to turn, and I believe that is why the wound was worse this time—landed in a different place, a worse place.” He rubs at his eyes. His heart aches. “I know better now. Some lessons are hard learned. I had forgotten.”

He looks up. Uhtred is watching him carefully. “Do you understand?” Alfred repeats. “I don’t do this because I want your ire, Uhtred, or because I want bitterness to grow between us. I am doing this so that these events will happen the way they are meant to happen, so that I can avoid anything like my brother’s death happening again. I could not bear it if I influenced something, and was somehow responsible for someone dying—someone I care about.”

Uhtred’s eyes search his face. “Why not just _tell me_ what you need done, Lord?”

Alfred huffs a little, a bitter almost-laugh. “Uhtred, I have spent the past thirty years learning and relearning that whenever I tell you to do something, you do the precise opposite.”

More silence reigns between them. 

“...It is not your fault, Lord,” Uhtred says after several beats have passed. “Your brother. King Aethelred. You wanting to save him... it is not your fault. If I could have saved Thyra from burning with the rest of my family, I would have in a heartbeat, even if it meant that my calling out to her sped the process. It’s natural to want to save those you love.”

Alfred’s heart quakes. “I just wish I could have spoken with him,” he admits, almost a whisper. “I wish…”

The note.

_The note._

Alfred lurches for it, tucked away in his tunic as it is. The little sealed parchment, wrapped up as tiny as it can be, the last evidence of his brother’s words to him. There had been no note the first time: Aethelred had been able to express what he’d needed to. He’d had the time.

“Read it,” Uhtred urges, and Alfred, hands shaking, unravels it.

He has to squint in the light, but he can make out Aethelred’s flowing Latin with relative ease, so practiced and neat are his letters. Uhtred casts his gaze to the window, an attempt to give him privacy that Alfred appreciates.

_My dear brother,_

_Though I will never know the workings of your ever-racing mind, I can guess where some of those thoughts may begin and end, if they ever do such a thing. You asked me some nights ago how it is that I am able to balance the duty that I feel as king with the responsibility I have of being a father, and a brother._

_However much I can wonder why you’ve asked, it does not take much thinking to hypothesize the reasons. No fault lies with you for thinking this way: you have always been the thinker of our family, and it makes more than enough sense to me that these thoughts should cross your mind with the increased threat of Danes at our borders._

_I hope to live a long, healthy life as king, though these things don’t always go to plan. In the case of my death, I have instructed Lord Odda on how he is to advise the Witan on my successor. You must be prepared, Alfred._

_I love my son dearly, but he is no leader. You are meant to be King of Wessex in my stead. I have every confidence you will do what is right and just by her, as you have always done for all that you love._

_When you asked me how I manage Wessex and my role as brother and father, it felt a simple question to me at the time. Now, I think I can see it in the way you must: there are twists and turns and awful, awful scenarios where a king must choose between his family and his country._

_But I stand by my answer, even still, even with all those twists and turns your thoughts must take. I think of Wessex as I think of you—for you are, and always have been the heart of Wessex to me, Alfred. I look at you, and I see a distant hope, a far off dream, come to life under your careful ministrations._

_The only true advice I can impart to you is this: your gut has never steered you right, but I have every faith that it will guide you when the machinations of your mind fail to deliver, as mine so often have. Keep your council close and guard them carefully, for they are to be your dearest friends, and your confidantes. True loyalty is found few and far between, and when you see it, always treat those who give it to you, and to Wessex, well._

_And remember that you have my blessings._

_Your brother, a father, and a king,_

_Aethelred_

Alfred reads it once, then twice, heart racing and eyes stinging. _Your brother, a father, and a king._

Uhtred’s time limit for privacy must have passed. He is watching Alfred again, expression shadowed in the low candlelight. Softly, he inquires, “Lord?”

Alfred rereads the last section again, willing his tears away. _True loyalty is found few and far between. Always treat those who give it to you, and to Wessex, well._

“Uhtred,” Alfred says slowly, thoughts working. When machinations fail him, his gut will not—but perhaps his mind hasn't failed him yet. “Will you take an oath?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always folks thank you so, so much for reading and supporting me, especially through this little hiatus we went through! if you liked this please leave me your thoughts, any comments, any suggestions, anything you might want to see, where you think this is going because who knows? not me! but I'd love to hear from you!
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://f-ro-g.tumblr.com/) !!
> 
> much love and bye for now!  
> ro


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